She climbs out, refusing to look at either me, or Toby. I whisper to her, “Has he hurt you?”
She looks at her upper arm. I’m gripping it. I let go.
“Has he touched you?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Are you sure?” I try to keep my tone calm but there’s menace in my voice, I can hear it. My anger is spilling out. She nods, recoiling from me, and I think, What am I doing? This is only going to traumatize her. I’ll deal with it myself. I slip Toby’s keys into my pocket.
He’s standing a little apart from us, keeping his distance, scuffing the gravel with his feet, a hangdog, guilty look about him. When did he age so much?
“Okay, listen,” I say to her. “Don’t worry about a thing. Go indoors and I’ll have a chat with Toby. Do you want him to leave?”
She nods, then shakes her head. Nods again. Why is she so mute? “I just want Mum,” she says.
Of course, she does. It’s natural. I try to relax a little and pretend to check the time on my phone. “Oh, my, she is a bit late.” I frown in a way I know to appear sympathetic. “Look. Why don’tyou go inside? I’ll ask Toby to clear off and maybe we can order a pizza or something for supper while we wait for Mum. That sound good?”
It clearly doesn’t, but she’s smart enough to know it’s the best offer she’s got.
“Toby wants to talk to Mum.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll talk to him. You go inside before you get cold.”
Imogen does what she’s told. I watch her go back into the house and as soon as the door shuts behind her, I turn to Toby. He’s standing a few feet away, in the middle of the driveway and he’s about to say something when I reach him and grab him by the throat and push him into the lane, out of sight of the house.
His mouth gapes. The back of his head connects with a stone wall. His eyes are stretched wide, full of fear. He gasps for breath, his hands flailing like a girl’s.
“I know what you did to Emily,” I say, “and if you ever come near Imogen again, I’ll kill you.”
I squeeze on his windpipe. Hold it. For longer. Release. He crumples to the ground, sucking in air. I breathe deeply, cool, calm breaths, invigorated by the sight of him struggling, by the justice I’m administering. Recrimination and fright spill from his bloodshot gaze.
He tries to move away from me, and scuttles, half crawling, half walking.
“You hurt Emily,” I say. “If I hadn’t done this, Paul would have.”
“Fuck, Mark, fucking hell. I didn’t hurt Emily.”
“Don’t lie to me,” I say.
He walks backward, hands up in a posture of surrender.
“And what did you do to those girls you teach? What is it you want to do to Imogen?”
My anger is taking over, disturbing my vision. I can’t see Toby clearly. It’s like watching someone move behind a gauze curtain.
“Nothing!” he shouts. “Look, Ruth’s got the wrong idea. Honestly, she’s got it all wrong. You mustn’t believe her. She’s disturbed. She’s become an alcoholic. It’s escalated. She hasn’t been coping since the baby was born. She’s got this idea and she’s obsessed with it and it’s all wrong.”
He’s practically begging. It didn’t take much.
Sometimes, weakness in others pleases me. If you understand what someone wants, you have identified their weak spot. It’s easy, then, to manipulate them. At other times, weakness in others simply stirs the heinous part of me and the resulting urge to hurt them is very powerful.
Toby is breathing heavily, glancing over his shoulder into the gloaming as if there’s a place of refuge for him there. He has a high opinion of his abilities and a high opinion of his intelligence. People can have this tendency, in my experience. Toby believes he can dredge something up out of his big brain to ameliorate this situation, to cajole me into believing him, to forgiving him. It’s part of the fantasy world he exists in.
He doesn’t believe I’ll kill him.
He’s jabbering. More excuses and attempts to justify himself. I tune him out. What’s the point in listening? He’s a threat to my daughter. That’s all I need to know.
I am who I am, and unlike my wife, I’ve accepted that. I know that I’m capable of taking a human life, of murder, because I’ve done it and that is my story.
